


Booze, Cigars, Hockey, Sex

by akamine_chan



Category: ReGenesis
Genre: Challenge: midsummer_2010, Community: c6d_universe, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David was an asshole, maybe a brilliant asshole, but not without his own particular brand of rough charm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Booze, Cigars, Hockey, Sex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queue/gifts).



> Written for the Midsummer 2010 C6D exchange.
> 
> FRTDNEATJ, this is squeaking in just past the deadline. Andeincascade took the time to read a large part of it over, but it hasn't been beta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine. I hope you like this, darling Q! It's full of SCIENCE, so beware!

It had been a fun evening. Mayko loved these gatherings, where David cooked for them and they played poker and debated and laughed.

David was a tremendously talented cook, which was ironic. He was one of those people who seemed to thrive on nothing but caffeine and nicotine. He ate the worst junk food Mayko had ever seen a human being eat and survive; he probably had four or five take-out restaurants on speed dial on his phone. He had the cast iron stomach of a perpetual student and ate simply to refuel and keep going.

The only time he seemed to take pleasure in food was when he was sharing it with friends. He loved to cook, and part of his innate personality was to show off what he did well.

Mayko brought a salad. She'd gone to the local farmer's market, found a variety of organically grown vegetables, tossed them together and made her own dressing: some rice wine vinegar, garlic and chillies, fish sauce, water and lime juice, with a dash of sugar. Bob contributed some sweet corn, perfect golden yellow ears that David roasted on the grill, basting them with butter and garlic. Carlos stopped by a bakery and picked up a luscious looking _pastel borracho_ , a "drunken cake" soaked with rum. Caroline had brought some artisan bread, crusty and toothsome, while Jill had brought a lovely red Spanish wine, hearty and rich.

David made a mixed paella: sausages, mussels, and chicken, redolent with saffron and paprika, onions and peppers. He was a talkative cook, and as he stood over the stove he told the most unbelievable stories about chasing down an outbreak of cholera in the Pyrenees Mountains, which seemed to mainly consist of almost falling off of cliffs, getting shot at by suspicious Basque shepherds and flirting with pretty Andorran women.

Mayko shook her head. For someone who had a natural tendency to be an asshole, David still could pour on the charm when he wanted to.

The evening was a swirl of delicious food and excellent wine and good-natured arguments. They talked about a wide-range of topics: bioethics, politics, gender roles, discrimination, racism. Jill debated with Bob about the current pop-sci phenomena of cognitive neuroscience while they played poker for loonies. Mayko, with her background in math and statistics, ending up winning frequently, as did Caroline, who was the best at bluffing.

Eventually, people drifted off, collecting their coats and saying their good nights. Mayko was pleasantly buzzed, curled in one corner of the couch, drifting. Carlos sat at the other end, drink in hand, while David closed the door behind Bob and turned out the kitchen lights. Humming loudly, David joined them on the couch, stretching out between them, head in Mayko's lap, feet in Carlos'.

Mayko thought about pushing him away and she got as far as putting her hand on his head, but found that she was too relaxed to do anything else. Her fingers threaded through his hair, fascinated by the texture.

She looked over at Carlos, who was massaging David's socked feet, his hands looking especially strong and competent against the white cotton. David made a sound, halfway between a moan and a purr and it made Mayko smile. She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, feeling the shape of his skull, marveling at the brain inside. He shivered when she traced the outline of an ear, and she was surprised when David pulled one of her hands to his mouth, laying a sweet kiss on the sensitive palm of her hand.

Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him for a long moment, intrigued by the taste of him. She tasted tequila and rum, and the cigar he smoked earlier, bitter and dark, like fine chocolate. She pulled away, breathless, her heart racing. Carlos made a wordless sound and when she glanced at him, he looked shocked, like what she'd done had totally surprised him. And maybe it had.

She stretched out her arm and wrapped it around Carlos' neck and pulled him close, bringing their mouths together in soft, drawn-out kiss.

Carlos tasted different than David, sweeter, and his mouth was firm against hers. She nibbled at his lower lip and explored his textures, enjoying the way he opened to her.

In her lap, David half-stifled a soft groan.

* * *

It was hot and David hurt. Everywhere. He kept his eyes shut and breathed slowly, shallowly, trying to keep the nausea from getting worse. "Am I dead?" His voice, gravelly and hoarse, vibrated through his skull, making his _brain_ ache.

" _Madre de Dios_ ," a voice from his right groaned.

He turned his head toward the voice, and regretted it. "Carlos? The fuck?" He cracked his eyes open, only to quickly shut them. Yes, that was Carlos, bare-ass naked, so close that they were touching in a lot of places David wasn't comfortable about thinking about right at this moment.

"Not so loud, David." Carlos shifted and David opened his eyes again. Carlos was sitting up gingerly, clutching at his head. "Hurts."

"It was the tequila."

"And the rum. The gin. The vodka."

"Not helping, Carlos."

"Oh my God!" Carlos and David boggled as Mayko sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Oh my God!"

She was panicking, breathing fast and trembling. He reached out, hesitating, trying to find a neutral, non-naked spot to touch her. He settled on her bare shoulder. "Mayko—" At his touch, she shrieked, jumped out of bed and ran across the room to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Um, okay, then," David said, climbing out of bed, carefully. If he moved too fast he was sure his brains would slosh out onto the floor and then where would he be? He started to put on his underwear, puzzling over why they were too big and after a moment of confusion, realized they were Carlos'. With a sound of dismay, he set them aside and went without, pulled on his jeans and stumbling into the kitchen in search of coffee.

He heard Carlos getting out of bed behind him, and Mayko doing undecipherable things in the bathroom that involved running water and a steady banging sound that was accentuating the pounding in his head. David shook his head and concentrated on boiling water for coffee, because it looked like it was going to be that kind of morning. The only saving grace was that it was Sunday and he didn't _have_ to go to work.

Carlos came in to the kitchen, dressed, carrying his shoes loosely in one hand. He sat down at the long dining room table, fumbled his shoes on and then folded his hands carefully on the table. "Listen, David, about last night," Carlos looked at him across the kitchen, uncertain. "I—I'm not sure—"

David held up his hand, stopping him from saying anything more that would prove embarrassing to both of them. "Let's just—pretend last night never happened, eh?" He hovered over the kettle, encouraging it to boil faster with the power of his mind. "Not that I actually remember what happened last night," he muttered.

"Okay, then. I've got to go, have some stuff to get done..."

David waved him off. He toyed with the idea of being put out by how relieved Carlos sounded, but decided it was too much effort. "Sure, whatever, see you Monday."

With a odd half-nod, Carlos left.

David poured the hot water into the coffee press to let it steep. "Mayko! You want some coffee?" David bellowed, and then instantly regretted it as his headache intensified.

She yelled something back, but it was unintelligible over the sounds coming from the bathroom. He shrugged, poured himself a cup and sat at the table, too tired to search for some aspirin. After a moment, Mayko came rushing out of the bedroom, fully dressed and determinedly not to look at him. "Hey-David-thanks-for-a-great-evening-gotta-go-bye!" She grabbed her purse without pausing for a breath and the door slammed behind her, making him wince.

Okay, then. He drank his coffee and stumbled back to bed to sleep off the hangover.

* * *

Carlos didn't really like Mondays. Even though he'd come in on Sunday to finish running some gels and that made _Sunday_ the first day of the work week, there was something about Mondays that just required more caffeine and more patience than any other day of the week. It didn't help that Mayko was avoiding him and David was in an absolutely foul mood, snapping at everyone.

After a while, Carlos retreated into a rarely-used office, shutting the door against the irritating sounds of David's yelling, which made it difficult for Carlos to concentrate on the paper he was trying to read. _The CCR5-Delta 32 genotype: biologic and genetic implications in AIDS-resistance_. HIV was something that Carlos was passionate about; he'd spent so many years in Africa, trying to help with treatment, with prevention, and with diagnosis. Every year, almost two million people died from AIDS, and the number of infected people, especially in Africa, kept growing.

Carlos had spent almost two years in Africa, living and working with HIV and AIDS patients. He'd loved being in Africa— the land and the people were beautiful to him. He'd been happy because he made a difference there, he could see how what he was doing was affecting people, and that was something every doctor hoped for.

It was the flip side of that that eventually send him running from Africa with visions of dead and dying people in his head. The ones who were beyond his help, for whatever reason. The infants and children, orphaned by the disease that killed their mothers, and who had a good chance of dying from AIDS themselves. All the young women, forced to work as prostitutes, unable to afford condoms, and the men who patronized them. The medical procedures done with inadequate sterilization techniques, transfusions given with contaminated blood...

He stopped being able to sleep; every time he closed his eyes he saw the victim of HIV, and he felt paralyzed by his inability to do anything to really make a difference in the suffering. Eventually, like a lot of people who worked with AIDS victims in Africa, he gave up, overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the problem, burnt out and desperately in need of a break.

He'd gone home first, to his family in Mexico City, needing to touch base with his loved ones. His mother, who had understood so much without being told a single thing, held him close like he was a small child again, and he took what comfort he could from that. She loved him and forgave him, and he could move on, his burden of guilt lightened by the love of a good woman.

It wasn't long after that that he'd gotten the job at NORBAC, and while he was content here in Toronto, he still felt a longing for Africa, and the work he could do there. There were many days when he felt the work he did at NORBAC, while important, paled against what he could accomplish back in Africa. There was so much research still left to be done.

For instance, there was the mystery of the long-term non-progressors, who numbered about 1 in 300 in the general population, like Rhiannon, the woman he'd found for Lloyd. Non-progressors were defined by their lack of HIV-related symptoms for long periods of time, in spite of being infected with the virus.

There was another group of people, categorized as _elite controllers_ , who had the HLA B57 gene. This gene caused the body to make more potent and broadly reactive killer T-cells, which easily recognized and destroyed HIV and HIV-mutations. Their T-cells also recognized other fast-growing viruses, like the Hepatitis C virus. The downside, and there was always a downside, was that elite controllers were more susceptible to autoimmune diseases.

Most people had a some of these reactive and potent killer T-cells; the trick was knowing how many was enough.

CCR5-Delta 32 was a deletion mutation that seemed to confer a resistance to both smallpox and HIV. It was present in up to 14% of the population in Europe, but was almost unheard of in African and Asian populations. One copy of the allele delayed the development of AIDS in an infected patient by about two years, having two copies of the allele created a strong resistance against infection by creating a non-functioning receptor that blocked HIV R5 entry.

Understanding how the CCR5-Delta 32 mutation turned off the receptor would be a huge step towards the goal of eradicating HIV. It was such a multifaceted problem that even an outright cure would not stop the spread of the HIV. Like most public health issues, there was testing, education and treatment to integrate into the societies most affected by the virus.

Carlos spent the morning reviewing the history of HIV and AIDS.

The names were a litany that Carlos had memorized early on. The first known yet unnamed victim from the Belgian Congo, who died in 1959. Ardouin A., who died the same year. In 1969 Robert R., a teenager that had never left his native Midwest died, and with a positive diagnosis of AIDS 18 years later, proved that HIV was already present in North America long before it reached epidemic proportions in the 80's. Gaëtan Dugas, Arvid Noe, Grethe Rask, Senhor Jose.

There were other names, the ones who make the crucial breakthroughs, the ones who would go down in history as heroes. Françoise Barré-Sinoussi, Robert Gallo, and Luc Montagnier. And the countless number of students, laboratory workers and other researchers that contributed time, effort, information, knowledge, and ideas. The real heroes.

And the myths. The apocryphal tale of a polio vaccine being tested in the Congo during the early 60's which lead to the first case of HIV, the conspiracy theorists who proposed that HIV was deliberately introduced into either the African-American or homosexual populations as a method of deliberate genocide by the United States government, the deniers who claimed that there was no proof that HIV even existed and that if it did, it certainly didn't cause AIDS. Instead, they claimed that it was the antiviral drug cocktails that caused the the symptoms of AIDS. Carlos was pretty sure the lot of them were crazy.

Carlos re-read the article on the CCR5-Delta 32 genotype and prayed.

* * *

He finally managed to corner Mayko in the break room. He touched her shoulder and saw the panic flash across her face before she managed to hide it.

"No, Mayko, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. With what happened. Friday night."

She paled a little, and looked down at her tea, pulling on the string to swirl the bag around. "I'm—not sure, Carlos. It certainly wasn't something I expected to happen."

He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I understand. I don't think it wasn't what any of us were expecting."

"No," she said softly. She looked up, eyes clear. "I'm still processing, and it's not helping to have David acting like a bear with an injured paw, growling and swatting at everything..."

"Well," Carlos joked, "the growling part _is_ pretty normal."

Mayko laughed, and Carlos felt something tense inside of his chest loosen a little. "I thing we all need some time to think about what happened, but I just wanted to make sure you weren't angry or upset—"

"No. I'm just...confused."

"I understand." He nodded, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "If you need to talk, come find me."

She smiled. "Thanks, Carlos."

* * *

David spent the afternoon locked in his office with pharmaceutical executives, yelling at the top of his lungs. Carlos caught words like _assholes_ , _greed_ , and _stupid_ , and decided that he really didn't want to know what kind of trouble David was getting into this time.

So much of their work was tedious and repetitious lab work, running the same series of tests over and over. He had a series of western blots to run, so he managed, with a little wheedling, to convince Jill to help him with them. As they processed the samples, they talked about Jill's work on juvenile diabetes and Carlos' foray into the world of HIV long-term non-progressors.

"Do you think that maybe other viruses have their own set of non-progressors, as well," she asked, gesturing with the tip of her pipette.

He looked blankly at her. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just wondering if the phenomena of non-progressors is limited to HIV. Or if there are people who are non-progressors for Hep C, or Ebola, or whatever. Like carriers of virulent bacteria—Typhoid Mary. They're a source of the bacteria, they can spread it, but they are never affected by it."

Carlos was stunned by the elegance of the thought. "I don't know, Jill, but it's certainly something that researchers should be looking into."

Jill just smiled.

* * *

David made lasagna, a recipe he claimed he'd sweet-talked out of an old Italian grandmother he'd met in Sicily when doing some research on the Spanish Flu as a grad student. Mayko had to agree, it was the best lasagna she'd ever eaten.

Everyone had brought something special to the dinner. Carlos had made a spicy salsa with homemade tortilla chips, while Bob had thrown together a nice Greek salad. Caroline was out of town, and Jill had a date, but Wes showed up with ouzo and a lovely selection of cheeses. Mayko was proud of her offering—a dense, rich cheesecake topped with luscious strawberries.

It had been a rough week, so for the most part, they tried to stay away from shop talk. Bob told some interesting stories about the history of perfume, from its humble origins of spices and flowers and herbs, to the use of resins and ambergris and civet essences, and to the modern day perfumer's extensive use of chemistry as their palette. He talked about touring the Farina Fragrance Museum in Germany, and how perfume was really the beginning of modern organic chemistry.

They played poker for a while, but Mayko found herself distracted by Carlos at odd times; the sound of his voice and the brush of his hand sent shivers down her spine. She thought about leaving, making her excuses and slipping away, but some part of her wanted to see if anything would happen tonight. David sat close to her while they played, whispering funny asides into her ear, leaning into her personal space, and that made her feel strangely tingly.

Wes, and then Bob grew tired of losing to Carlos and Mayko, and they helped clean up before heading out the door. Mayko found herself lounging on the couch, a glass of wine in hand. She felt relaxed, and happy, and when David sat next to her and pulled her close, she let herself melt against him. When Carlos joined them, sandwiching her between them, she didn't think to object. They made her feel safe and protected, and she let herself go, kissing David, then Carlos.

* * *

"Oh, fuck." His head was pounding. He tried not to move; moving only seemed to make it worse. His eyeballs were throbbing, which he was sure would worry him, if he could actually round up two brain cells to think about it. But he seemed to be a little short on working brain cells at the moment, having killed a good number of them the night before with— "Tequila!"

"Sssh. Not so loud." There was a pained hiss. " _Madre de Dios_. The ouzo."

"Carlos?" David cracked his eyes open, peering blearily at Carlos, mostly naked and plastered warmly against his side. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Oh my God!"

David and Carlos both jolted as Mayko sat up on the other side of the bed, clutching the sheet to her breasts.

"Christ, not again," David moaned as Mayko dashed for the bathroom.

"Softer," Carlos begged, clutching at his head. "Not so loud."

"I need some coffee." He levered himself out of bed and headed into the kitchen, not even bothering with his pants. The banging started up in the bathroom and he winced as it set off echoes in his head. "Christ."

Carlos joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in his somewhat rumpled clothes.

"Coffee?" David asked, holding up a spare mug.

"Yes, please."

David filled the mug up and handed it to Carlos, careful not to touch him. He suspected that they'd done quite enough touching last night, though he couldn't remember anything but brief flashes that involved lots of naked skin. Carlos' warm brown tones, Mayko's pale gold in the lamp light.

"David, I think we need to talk—"

David held up his hand to forestall any discussion. "Let's not, and say we did."

Carlos looked relived. "Okay." He finished off his coffee and put the empty mug into the sink. "I've got to go, get some things done—"

Waving him off, David nodded. "Yeah, yeah. See you at work."

Carlos nodded, and let himself out of the apartment.

David thought about yelling at Mayko to see if she wanted any coffee, but he decided that she would just ignore him, or worse, call him an asshole. If she wanted coffee, she could get it herself. He stumbled back to bed, burrowing under the covers that smelled like _someone else_ and tried to go back to sleep.

* * *

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Carlos had recovered from his vicious hangover, mainly due to his father's patented cure, though it hadn't gone down smoothly. He got to the lab fairly early and started a literature review on _X. fastidiosa_ and the glassy-winged sharpshooter, the most common vector for _X. fastidiosa_. Most of the research on _X. fastidiosa_ was coming out of California wine country because of the damage _X. fastidiosa_ did to grape vines, though it was Brazil that dedicated the money and effort to sequence the bacteria's genome due to the devastation of their citrus crops by the citrus x disease.

But _X. fastidiosa_ was primarily known as a disease of _V. vinifera_ , not of citrus plants. Carlos followed a strange, almost random path from _X. fastidiosa_ to phylloxera and the French wine blight of the mid-19th century to citrus tristeza virus and the brown citrus aphid, to the tulip breaking virus and the Dutch tulip mania of the 17th century.

After lunch, David brought up an unusual case involving pigs. There was a new "mystery" disease, experts in the field were calling it postweaning multi-systemic wasting syndrome (PMWS). About 5% of the pigs in certain feed lots were getting sick and dying. Upon examination, it was found that they had mild lung lesions, marked edema of the spinal column and slight jaundice. With early detection and the application of a broad spectrum antimicrobial to deal with the respiratory component, most of the pigs recovered.

The problem was that it seemed to be spreading to the human workers. Two dozen people had come down with a similar illness; no specific symptoms other than "not feeling well." Porcine biology was close enough to human biology for the whole idea to be worrisome.

"Well, there was the 'pig brain mist' thing," David said, leaning back in his chair and fiddling with a pen.

"'Pig brain mist' thing? I don't think I'm familiar with that."

Getting up and walking over to the chalkboard, David wrote PIG BRAIN MIST, the chalk squeaking a little as David scribbled.

"Yeah, a few years ago a bunch of workers at several pork processing plants starting showing autoimmune disease symptoms - you know, fatigue, numbness and tingling in the extremities, pain, difficulty walking. They had various degrees of spinal cord inflammation, and most of the inflammation was pretty severe. Turns out that the affected employees worked in the "head room" where the pig brains were processed. Some amount of pig brains were aerosolized during the processing, which the workers breathed in, which stimulated an immune response."

Carlos snapped his fingers. "The workers' antibodies were attacking their own nerve cells."

"Yeah. When everything is said and done, people and pigs are pretty similar."

"Hmmm." Thoughtful, Carlos looked at the words on the chalkboard.

"With a little immunotherapy and steroids, most of the workers got better. None have fully recovered, though." David sat on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him, almost touching Carlos' foot.

"So, what about your PMWS? Has there been any luck in isolating an infectious agent? Virus, bacteria? Wait, you said that they treated the PMWS in pigs with a broad spectrum antifungal; any luck in searching for fungi?"

David rolled his eyes. "You know how fucking hard fungi are to deal with. I've contacted a couple of mycologists, but so far no one has been able to culture whatever is causing the lung issue. The thought is that the fungi is a coinfection with a virus; the virus makes the immune system vulnerable and a fungi that's normally not a problem moves in because suddenly there's no defense for it to deal with." He kicked at Carlos' foot before standing back up. "There's some thought that it's related to porcine reproductive and respiratory syndrome virus (PRRS), which is charmingly known as Blue-Ear Pig disease."

BLUE-EAR PIG DISEASE.

"It's a small arterivirus, related to a couple of animal diseases, two strains. Nothing that's transmittable to humans, so far."

"So far." Carlos sighed. "So what are the similarities between PRRS and PMWS?"

* * *

Carlos spent the rest of the afternoon working on some protein profiling with Bob, trying to identify some mysterious biological residue found where mysterious biological residues had no business being. It was repetitive, tedious work, but working with Bob was always an interesting experience. As they processed the samples, Carlos asked Bob what he knew about pigs.

It turned out that Bob knew a lot about pigs, and how they were being used in medical research. Scientists had been trying for years to transplant pig organs into humans, but hadn't had much luck until recently. A little bit of genetic tinkering made some organs more acceptable for human use, but that brought up all kinds of ethical debates about the idea of human-pig hybrids. Never mind the very real possibility of transmitting diseases across species.

There were no clear answers.

Biotech firms were busy creating genetically engineered pigs for lung and heart transplants, using islet cells to try to cure diabetes, rebuilding damaged ligaments and muscles, cartilage and bone. It was turning into a billion dollar business.

* * *

"Mayko!" David stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the lab, bellowing like an enraged bull. "Mayko!"

Carlos shook his head. David might be the most brilliant man he'd ever had the privilege to work with, but it was clear that he just didn't understand people. No, it was more than that. David understood people, he just choose not to cater to the niceties of polite society. Didn't have the time, inclination or patience to follow the rules.

"What?" Mayko glared up at David, file folders in hand. "And stop _yelling_."

Carlos had to bite back a smile. David didn't follow any rules but his own, yet the people who knew him best didn't let him get away with being a _pendejo_. In spite of David's brilliance, most of his coworkers had a very low tolerance for David's bullshit.

"Did you get me the information I asked you for, oh," David made a show of looking at his watch, "an hour ago?"

Mayko grinned up at David. "Yeah, finished about fifteen minutes after you asked. But I decided to wait until you asked nicely for it..."

"Get up here."

"You should be nicer to me, David." Mayko danced up the stairs. "You'd be amazed how well that works with some people."

"I pay you to work here, Mayko. I don't _have_ to be nice to you." David looked down at the lab floor. "What are you people staring at? You're supposed to be working."

Choking on a laugh, Carlos looked at Bob, who was staring up at David, wide-eyed. Leaning over towards Carlos, Bob whispered, "He's in an awfully good mood."

Carlos could only smile and nod.

* * *

The next morning, they gathered in David's office to brainstorm.

PIG BRAIN MIST  
BLUE-EAR PIG DISEASE  
PMWS -> VIRUS + LUNG FUNGI CO-INFECTION  
GAL GENE

"What's a GAL gene?"

"The GAL gene encodes the neuropeptide Galanin." Bob fiddled with his pen. "Pigs are being genetically modified to not have the GAL gene, which decreases the chances of human rejection of pig organs. If the big biotech firms can get the technique perfected, it would mean a huge step for organ transplants. People wouldn't have to wait for a person with the right blood type to donate the right organ; the needed organs could be grown inside of pigs and harvested when necessary."

"The ethics of that are kind of...blurry, aren't they?" Jill asked, concerned.

"I don't think the biotech companies are particularly worried about the ethics behind this," David said, rocking back in his chair. "They're just looking to make money."

"Hmmm. How many people have come down with PMWS?" Jill opened her notebook and started scribbling. "And you're sure there's a viral component to this?"

"About 22 people, and no, I'm not sure. The lung lesions and respiratory difficulties are definitely fungi-related, even though no one's been able to culture the fungi. The broad spectrum anti-fungal clears that up after several weeks. The spinal column edema and the jaundice, and the general malaise—who knows.

"Hmmm. Get me some samples, David, and I'll see what we can find." She made a notation.

"Is there anything special about these pigs? _Have_ they been genetically modified for other purposes? Or are they just your standard feed lot pigs?" Mayko asked.

"But standard hog lot pigs, destined for the food market, have a lot of things done to them. They're raised on cheap grains filled with antibiotics and hormones and vitamins, kept in unsanitary conditions and—" Bob stopped at the look of distaste that crossed Mayko's face, his voice trailing off. "—other things."

"Not only antibiotics, but anti-bacterials, anti-fungals and other anti-parasitics, as well."

"So maybe this anti-everything cocktail has made things different..."

"Mayko..." Carlos looked thoughtful. "Is there a way to find out if this cocktail has been changed recently, re-tailored for something new, some new disease or deficiency they've run across?"

David nodded. "That's a good possibility. Can you do that, Mayko?"

She smiled. "I can do anything."

"Good girl." He looked around the office. "We'll get you some samples, Jill, as soon as possible. Bob can help you if he's got the time. Carlos, how would you like to take a trip to North Carolina?"

DRUG COCKTAIL

* * *

They were all exhausted, and they ordered pizza and Thai and Chinese, sat around drinking and bitching about everything and anything. Mayko had never seen a more surly and unhappy group of people, but it _had_ been a very rough fucking week. Everyone had bounced from one emergency to another, with no time to catch their breath or regain their balance. It had sucked.

So they ate food just to refuel, and drank harder than they normal would have, and cabs were called for Wes and Rachel fairly early, because both were too unsteady to drive themselves home, even though Wes continued to insist he was fine right up to the point where he was shoved into the back of the taxi. Rachel could hold her liquor, but not _that_ much liquor. She acquiesced to being called a taxi much more gracefully than Wes did.

Carlos was dozing on the couch, a mojito still in his hand, when Mayko joined him. She curled up next to him, relaxing for the first time all week, her body tired and aching from all the long hours she'd put in. She was half-asleep when David finally joined them. She heard Carlos murmur something indistinguishable as David rescued Carlos' glass from his hand, and then she felt a light touch on her head, David pressing a kiss to her hair. She would have purred if she'd had the energy.

Instead, she just let the warmth cocoon her.

* * *

"Oh, fuck." He breathed carefully and steadily through his nose, trying to fight off the nausea that was threatening to drive him into the bathroom to worship at the porcelain throne, which he hadn't done since grad school. And that one time at that party...and on his 30th birthday...and when Lilith was born...and when the divorce had been final...

"¿Qué?

"Carlos?" He sat up and clutched at his head. "Those fucking mojitos. Why did you let me drink so many of them?"

"Me?" Carlos still managed to sound indignant even while whispering. "I tried to stop you after the fifth one, but you wouldn't listen. You insisted that you were a grown man—"

"Alright, alright." Arguing with Carlos was making his nausea worse. Or maybe that was just the hangover. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

The world jiggled as Carlos got up quickly and grabbed David's elbow, pulling him off the bed and leading him into the bathroom. He lifted the lid of the toilet, and propped David against the wall. "I'm going to—I'll be in the bedroom if you need anything." Carlos beat a hasty retreat that would have been amusing for a medical doctor used to various gross bodily fluids if David's stomach lining wasn't protesting so violently. "Oh, fuck."

After a while, there was nothing left in his stomach, which settling down to an unfriendly grumble. David drank a glass of water in careful sips, worried about the possibility of his stomach rejecting even that minimal offering. It stayed down, and wondered if he should risk some aspirin on top of it.

"Oh my God!"

"Oh Christ, not again," he mumbled. "Mayko, knock it off!" He could hear Carlos trying to calm her down, reassure her. He couldn't make out the exact words, but he was using his soothing tone of voice, the one he used on dangerous people. David didn't really think Mayko could be considered all that dangerous, unless she was still naked. In which case, it was more _distracting_ than _dangerous_. He grinned, smug, until he heard the front door slam.

"Is it safe to come out?" he called through the bathroom door.

"Relatively, yes."

David shuffled back into the bedroom, where Carlos was putting his clothes back on. He made a show of not watching, except he was, out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn't be blamed, Carlos was a good looking guy; he kept himself in really good shape with his kickboxing and other manly sports. He was well-muscled without being bulky like a body builder, and he was strong.

"David, I think we really need to—"

"—talk?"

"Well, yes. I can count the first time as an accident, the second time as a relapse, but this is the third time, David. It's becoming a habit for all of us, and we don't want to admit it."

"A bad habit, or a good one?" He raised his eyebrow.

Carlos shook his head, a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't know."

David scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough scratch of stubble. "Look, I'm not up for a long involved discussion right at this moment. My brain hurts, my mouth tastes like I've been licking frogs and I'm not even sure I remember everything that's been going on in that bed," he pointed to the rumpled sheets, "there." _Liar_ , his brain whispered.

"You've licked frogs?" Carlos looked both horrified and fascinated.

David waved away the question. "In college. It was an experiment." If anything, Carlos looked _more_ horrified. "We were drunk. We didn't hurt them, just...licked them. We let them go once we were done."

Carlos shook his head in disbelief. "Is there anything that you haven't licked?"

A lecherous grin spread across David's face. "Well, now that you've mentioned it, there's at least one thing..."

"David—"

"What?" The innocent look didn't work for him, but it never stopped him from trying.

Carlos looked at his watch. "Look, I've got to go. I've got a training session in 30 minutes. But that doesn't mean we're not going to talk about this."

"Sure, Carlos, whatever you say. We can talk about our _feelings_."

He stared at David for a minute. "You are such an ass."

"Whatever. I'm going to make some coffee. You want some?" David drifted toward the kitchen, rubbing his stomach which was growling hungrily at him. He opened the fridge, looking for something to eat that wasn't ancient or moldy or trying to evolve into a higher form of consciousness. No luck.

"No, thank you. I'll see you later, David."

The door shut gently behind Carlos.

"Fuck." It was going to be one of those days.

* * *

" _Varroa_ mites."

"Hmmm." Carlos yawned, and stirred some sugar into his coffee. Bob obviously had stumbled over some new, interesting thing. " _Varroa_ mites," he echoed.

"Yes. _Varroa destructor_."

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "Impressively scary name for an insect."

Bob stopped fidgeting for a moment, looking confused. Carlos could almost hear his brain cells firing. "Oh. Well, they _do_ tend to be extremely destructive, so the name is actually very apt."

Leaning against the counter, he took a sip of his coffee, relishing the bitterness. "So, _V. destructor_ , Bob."

" _V. destructor_. An external parasite of both the Western Honey Bee, _Apis mellifera_ and the Asiatic Honey Bee, _Apis cerana_. Right now, _V. destructor_ is heavily implicated as a contributing factor to colony collapse disorder, which has killed off more than a third of the commercial bee colonies in North America. It's possible that CCD has destroyed a significant percentage of feral bee colonies, as well."

Carlos felt a chill shiver down his spine. "Aren't bees responsible for the pollination of a large portion of agricultural crops?"

Nodding, Bob fiddled with a spoon he'd found on the counter. "The estimated agricultural value of bee pollination in the United States alone is greater than $15 billion annually, and that's not including the $130 million from raw honey and honey products. The United States Agricultural Department estimates that native insect pollinators saves roughly $3 billion annual through natural crop production. Big business. Very big business." Setting the spoon down, he looked at Carlos. "Three quarters of the world's flowering plants and about 90 food crops rely on insect pollinators."

"Carlos! Bob! Rachel! In my office!"

Bob smiled tentatively. "Our leader bellows."

Carlos laughed and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Let's see what we can do about the bees."

"I like honey."

* * *

"Well, at least the complete genome for _Apis mellifera_ has already been sequenced. All 236 million base pairs. Saves us a _lot_ of trouble," Mayko said, as she chose a doughnut from the box that Wes was holding out. Carlos shook his head when Wes tipped the box in his direction.

"True." David paced back and forth, gesturing with his hands. "So, what do we know about Colony Collapse Disorder so far?" He moved over to the wall and wrote CCD on the chalkboard.

"Variations have been documented, on a small scale, since 1869, but it wasn't until the 1970's that there was a dramatic reduction of feral bees. It wasn't until 2004 that CCD started to effect domesticated bees. It's primarily found in the United States and Canada, though there have been isolated cases in Brazil, Indian and parts of Europe. Uh," Bob looked at his printouts, "mainly France, Belgium, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, Greece, Slovenia, the Netherlands, Austria and the United Kingdom."

"Is that a geographic contiguous area?" Rachel asked dubiously.

"Maybe," Mayko looked up at the ceiling, thinking.

"Yes, except for Greece and the UK. And the Americas, of course," Carlos said.

"Hmm. Well, that certainly gives weight to the idea that whatever this is, it's spreading."

"So, a disease seems likely, possibly spread by parasites."

Bob nodded. "Yes, _Varroa destructor_ is a known reservoir of several viruses. Tracheal mites, such as _Acarapis woodi_ don't seem to carry any infections, but infestations can lead to an overall weakening of the hive. _Nosema apis_ is a microsporidian that is associated with at least one virus."

"Okay." David ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up in odd directions before he smoothed it back down. "So, what are our suspects?"

"Well, there are a couple of bacterial diseases, and a couple of fungal diseases, but collapsing colonies don't seem to exhibit any clear symptoms of those diseases." Rachel said, flipping through her notes. "Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe we need to take a step back an define what CCD _is_ before we try to figure out what's causing it."

"Bob?" David threw himself down in his chair, leaning back and stretching. Carlos has a hard time not staring at the long line David's body made. He shifted in his seat, focusing on the discussion.

"Yes. CCD is characterized by three conditions: the presence of capped brood, the presence of food stores, and presence of the queen bee in the collapsed hive. Healthy bees would never leave behind either their capped brood or their food supply."

Carlos was confused. "That's it? No obvious disease manifestations, just...dead bees?"

"Like a bee ghost town. Everyone dead for no good reason." Mayko shook her head. "It's pretty strange. Other bees typically rob the food stores of abandoned hives, but they almost _hesitate_ with CCD hives. Same with pests that usually move in on the food stores—there's a significant delay before they do so. It's very odd."

"I'll contact the University of Guelph and the USDA—they seem to have done a lot of research. Let's see what's they've got to say." Wes started to take notes. "And I'll see what other information I can round up. I think there were a couple of studies out of Penn State."

"What about your crackpot science website, Mayko? They got any hot tips about UFOs causing bee die-offs."

Mayko stuck her tongue out at David, and Carlos had to look away for a moment. "Yeah, they've got their own list of usual suspects: cell phone radiation, pesticides, genetically modified crops and climate change. No mention of UFO's, but give them time. I'm sure they'll make the connection eventually.

"How can you read that crap?"

"It's a special skill, David," she responded, tipping her chin up. "Plus, the ideas might be far-fetched and preposterous, but sometimes there's a grain of truth in there. You just have to look for it."

"Hmmm." He scrambled out of his chair. "So, what _are_ the likely causes of CCD?"

Bob cleared his throat and listed them off, pausing so David could scrawl them on the chalkboard.

MALNUTRITION - MONOCULTURAL DIET  
ISRAEL ACUTE PARALYSIS VIRUS (IAPV)  
NOSEMA CERANAE  
PESTICIDES/CHEMICALS

"What's IAPV?" Rachel asked.

"It's one of the viruses that the Varroa mite carries. The other is Deformed Wing Virus. Both are responsible for a significant number of bee deaths, once a colony is infested." Bob adjusted his glasses. "Very little is known about IAPV except that there is a strong correlation between it and CCD. There's a professor down at Columbia who's looking into it."

"Well, let's start talking to the researchers, start getting some samples in. Run tests, see what we can find."

"Aye-aye, captain," Mayko saluted, and giggled.

Bees. Carlos shrugged.

* * *

Dinner was subdued. There was very little talk beyond "pass the salt" and no drinking. With David barely out of rehab, it didn't seem fair to drink in front of him, though he'd scowled when Carlos mentioned why he and Mayko hadn't brought any alcohol.

"I'm not a baby, Carlos. I can make my own decisions, including whether I can drink or not."

Carlos tried to reassure him. "I know, David, we know." He looked to Mayko for support. "We just want it to be _your_ decision, not something you do because the alcohol is available."

"Huh." He didn't look convinced.

Mayko had brought David's favorite dessert—mint chocolate chip ice cream, but even that couldn't bring him out of his mood. He sat on the couch, surly and uncommunicative, until Mayko climbed into his lap, looping her arms around his shoulders and leaning down for a warm, thorough kiss. "Stop being such an ass, David."

He looked at her in shock. "Oh, go to hell, Mayko."

She giggled, and reached up for Carlos' hand. "After you, Sandström. After you."

* * *

David woke, and for once, didn't feel hung over. That was a novel sensation. He wasn't sure he liked it. Sobriety wasn't turning out to be everything he'd hoped for.

It was hot, and he was sticky, with Carlos pressed up against one side, Mayko the other. A David sandwich. He opened his eyes, and yeah, Carlos and Mayko. Both of them naked and sexy and much more addictive than he'd ever suspected. This was definitely going to be a problem.

"Good morning, David," Carlos whispered, dropping a kiss on his mouth before sitting up, propping himself on the headboard.

"Morning." He didn't know what else to say. Before now, their morning-afters had been plagued by hangovers and fuzzy brains and the weird banging sounds Mayko made when she was hiding in the bathroom.

"Carlos, David," Mayko stretched, the sheet slipping down a little before she caught it. She propped herself up with a pillow.

David held his breath, waiting for the panicking and yelling to start. Mayko just looked calmly back at him, her brown eyes wide awake. "Okay, this is fucked up."

"Maybe it's just time for us to talk about this like rational adults. We can't blame alcohol this time."

David closed his eyes and pulled the sheet over his head. "Maybe I liked having the alcohol to blame."

"Maybe so, David, but for today, let's set aside the blame and figure out where this relationship is going."

He thought about pouting, but figured Mayko would never let him live it down.

"Well, that would required David to admit that this was a relationship, and not a semi-regular one night stand." Mayko's voice was quiet. "We would all have to admit this was something _more_."

There was a rustling, and David pulled the sheet back down to watch Carlos move to the other end of the bed, facing both David and Mayko. He sat cross legged, which was a little distracting, as he was wearing no clothes. David had to fight to keep from staring. He was pretty sure that Mayko was having the same problem. She sat up a little straighter.

"Is that what it takes?" Carlos' voice was low and serious. "Okay, I will be the first to confess." He ran his hands over his shaved head. "This—whatever _this_ is, means something to me. I don't know where it's going, or how long it's going to last, but both of you have become important to me. More than a one night stand."

David tried to pretend that his heart didn't do a funny little dance in his chest.

Mayko stared at her legs under the sheet, at the whole one and the one that wasn't. She cleared her throat, but her voice was still a little scratchy. "You guys are my friends, and that's really important to me. If I had to choose between friends and this, I'd have to choose to be friends." She looked up at Carlos, then glanced at David. "But if I can have both, it's even better."

David had had enough. He put his hands behind his head and grinned insouciantly. "I'm just here for the sex." He ducked the pillow that Mayko threw at his head, but got smacked by the one Carlos threw.

"You are such an asshole," Mayko complained as he tried to block the next pillow she aimed as he head.

"I know. But you both love me for it, so it's okay."

They both pounced on him with more pillows, and all he could do was laugh.

-fin-


End file.
